My brain works in mysterious ways. Right now it is fond of the soft light of my room and the colors reflecting off of mirrors and hidden things stuffed away in corners. There are secrets and regrets shoved in every direction from where I sit, and, while I look at them everyday, I am never afraid. I realize now, that for whatever reason I told you I loved you, I never showed you who I really was. Was I that girl? The one with the chains and the lack of restrictions. The one with open wounds and salt-shaker in hand. I was never her no matter how badly you wanted me to be. I never showed you my room, my space. My bed never touched the soft skin of your back. My pillow never felt the gentle resting of your head. Your curls never graced the back of my chairs. Cant you see? I never let you in. I never loved you. I was naive; a crazed teenage girl with a sick infatuation, and that's it. That's all it ever was.

I am made up of so many little pieces collected from train stations and the posts of bed frames.